Visions In Death

When I worked Homicide, we'd get calls now and then from people claiming they had visions, or information from the spirit world. You know that." "Yeah, still do. We waste time and manpower following them up, then go along and investigate with our measly five senses." "Got some genuines out there." He pushed away from the desk to program for coffee. "Most departments these days have a sensitive attached as civilian consultant. More than a few carry badges, too." "Yeah, well. We were partnered up for a long time." He handed her a mug of coffee. "Those were the days." "We never used a sensitive." "No? Well, you use what you use when the tool fits." "I've got one claims she saw the Central Park murder in a dream." Feeney sipped contemplatively. "You check her out?" "Yeah, and she jibes. Licensed and registered. Got a reference from Louise Dimatto." "Doc's not an asshole." "No, she's not. If you were me, would you bring her in?" He lifted a shoulder. "You know the answer to that." She frowned into her coffee. "You use what you use. Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear it from somebody who's got his feet planted. Thanks." She set the nearly untouched coffee down. She was getting spoiled, she thought. She was finding it easier and easier to walk away from the stuff if it wasn't real coffee. Thanks." "No sweat. Let me know if you need somebody to dig in, get his hands, and personal attire, dirty." "Will do. Ah, you know somebody could spill coffee on that getup. Wouldn't be your fault." He sent her a pitying look. "She'd know. Ain't nobody more psychic than a wife."

She rounded up Peabody. If she was going to consult with a psychic, she was going to run the possibility by her commander first.

Whitney listened as she gave her oral to back up the data she'd already sent to his attention. He didn't interrupt, but sat quiet at his desk, a big man with dark skin and close-cropped silvering hair. Years of riding a desk hadn't wiped the cop out of him. It reached right down to the bone.

The only change in his wide, sober face was a quick lift of eyebrows when she mentioned Celina Sanchez. When her report was complete, he nodded, then eased back.

"Psychic consultant. Not your usual style, Lieutenant." "No, sir." "The media liaison is handling the public information front for now. We'll continue to omit the exact nature of the mutilation, as well as the description of the murder weapon. If you decide to consult a sensitive, that data will also be omitted." "She's firm on that, Commander. If I consult with her, I wouldn't feel comfortable giving her name to the liaison, or anyone beyond the active investigative team." "Understood. The name of your sensitive sounds familiar to me. I may have met her at some time or other. Socially.

I'll check with my wife, who has a better memory for that sort of thing." "Yes, sir. Do you want me to wait to speak with Ms Sanchez again until you've done so?" "No. This is your call. Detective, your opinion on this matter?" Peabody's spine snapped straight. "Mine, sir? Ah… I might be more open to extrasensory gifts, Commander. We have sensitives in my family." "Would you be one of them?" She relaxed enough to smile. "No, sir. I just have the basic five. I believe, as Lieutenant Dallas believes, that Celina Sanchez is worth at least a follow-up interview." "Then talk to her. If and when the eyes leak to the media, we'll see this case blasted on and through every media outlet.

We need to close it before the circus comes to town."

Celina lived in a section of SoHo that ran to high-end art, trendy restaurants, and tiny one-room boutiques. It was the land of young, well-heeled, well-dressed urbanites who liked to hold intimate, catered brunches on Sunday mornings, voted Liberal Party, and attended esoteric plays they only pretended to understand, much less enjoy.

Street artists were welcome, and coffeehouses were abundant.

Celina's two-story loft had once been part of a three-story sweatshop that had produced massive amounts of cheap, designer knockoff clothing. It, like other similar buildings in the sector, had been revitalized, rehabbed, and reclaimed by those who could afford the real estate.

From the street, Eve noted the windows were as wide as shuttle ports, and a long, narrow terrace with an ornate iron railing had been added to the third floor.

"You sure you don't want to call for an appointment?" Peabody asked.

"She ought to know we're coming." Peabody approached the sidewalk-level front entrance beside Eve. "That's sarcasm, sir." "Peabody, you know me too well." Eve rang the buzzer for Celina's loft. Moments later, Celina's voice drifted through the intercom.

"Yes?" "Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody." There was another sound. It might have been a sigh. "Please come up. I'll release the door and the elevator. Just ask for two." The little security light over the door went from red to green. Locks snicked open. Eve stepped inside the entryway, sca

When the door opened again, Celina stood on the other side of an ironwork gate. Her hair was up today, in some twisty coil that was secured by what looked like a couple of fancy chopsticks.

She wore skin-pants that were cropped a few inches above the ankle and a snug tank that left her midriff bare. She wore no shoes, no facial enhancements, no jewelry.

She opened the gate, stepped back. "I was afraid you'd come. We might as well sit down." She gestured behind her to a wide space furnished with a generous S-shaped sofa the color of good red wine. There was an oversized table on each curve, and on one stood a long, shallow bowl filled with what appeared to be rocks.

Beside it, a tall pillar candle rose out of a hammered cup.

The floor was the original wood, by Eve's guess, and had been sanded, sealed whatever people did with old, original wood to turn it into a glossy, honey-toned sea. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered over it, as brightly patterned art was scattered over the pale green walls.

Through archways, she spotted the kitchen, a party-sized dining area. There were open-tread, metal steps, painted a deeper green than the walls and boasting a railing that was fashioned to resemble a slim, slithering snake.

"What's that?" Eve nodded toward the only door, shut and secured.

"My consultant space. It has another entrance. I like the convenience of working at home when I can, but I also value my privacy. I don't take clients in this part of my house." She gestured again, toward the sofa. "Can I get you something to drink? I cancelled my consults today. I don't think I'd do anyone any good. You caught me in the middle of a yoga session. I'd like some tea myself."

"No, thanks," Eve responded.

"I wouldn't mind. If you're making it anyway." Celina smiled at Peabody. "Have a seat. It won't take long." Rather than sitting, Eve wandered. "You've got a big space here." "Yes. I need open spaces. I'd go crazy, for instance, in your office. You spoke with Louise?" "She contacted you?" "No. But you strike me as a thorough woman. I assume you checked my license, my record, my background, and spoke with Louise before deciding to talk to me again. You'd consider it necessary." "Louise said you were the black sheep." Celina came out, carrying a tray with a squat white pot and two fragile-looking white cups and saucers. She shot Eve a wry smile. "Yes, that's accurate. My family disapproves, and is mildly embarrassed not only by my gift but that I choose to make a living from it." "You don't need the money." "Not for financial security." She crossed the room to set the tray on the table. "But for personal satisfaction. In your circumstances, Lieutenant, you hardly need the salary the police department pays you. But I imagine you collect it just the same." She poured two cups of tea, passed one to Peabody. "I can't stop thinking about Elisa. I don't want to think of her.